Chapter 5

HUE AND CRY

"Gone!" cried Trent, both enraged and amazed. "How did he escape?"

"By the window," replied Dr. Browne, who was not ill-pleased to find the room empty, and he struck a second match to make certain, "yes! by the window."

"Anyone can see that," retorted the officer, sorely annoyed, for the position of affairs reflected no credit on his brains. "Holl! Fairburn! What is the meaning of this?"

The two policemen protested that they were not in fault. Fairburn, on guard at the door of the death-chamber, exonerated himself by pointing out that the corpse, which he had been set to watch, was still in the room, while Holl vehemently stated that he had heard no sound likely to lead him to believe in an intended escape.

"I did not hear the window being opened," said Holl, decisively.

"Why didn't you station a policeman under the window?" asked Browne, while the Inspector fretted and fumed, and wondered inwardly what the authorities would say to his negligence.

"Two men--villagers, were posted there," he said angrily. "I'll see them at once."

He ran hastily down the stairs, and out of the front door into the side garden, where the two men had been stationed. Finding no one there, he returned to the tap-room, and discovered the watchers busy with pots of beer.

"Why are you not at your posts, men?" he asked in a loud domineering voice.

"We got tired," said one bovine agriculturalist, explaining on behalf of himself and his friend, "and the damp was giving we the blamed rheumatics."

"What the devil does that matter, you fools? You should have remained where I placed you."

"You bean't our master," grumbled the spokesman, "and there weren't no money given to we."

Trent stamped, but could not gainsay this speech. It was his own fault, as he recognised plainly enough, for it was his duty to have posted official guards.

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

"Twenty minutes to half an hour," said the yokel, drawing his sleeve across his mouth, as he set down an empty pewter. "Bill, here, and me 'ull go back, if it be as you'll give we money."

"You can save yourself the trouble," retorted Trent sharply, swinging round on his heel, "the prisoner has escaped."

Immediately the tap-room was in commotion, and everyone rose in consternation. It was not pleasant to think that a murderer was at large and in the neighbourhood. Narby, from force of habit, felt for his revolver.

"Guess he can't hev gone far," said he, in his nasal American way, "th' fog 'ud stop him."

"The fog will save him, more like," said Dr. Browne, quickly. "He'll have time to get away before the mists lift. And I'm glad."

"Oh, you are, mister, and for why, may I ask?"

"Because the man is innocent."

"Innercent," shrieked Mrs. Narby shrilly, "an' me findin' the pocket-book, and Narby the razor an' key. Wot's yer torkin' of, anyhow?"

"Here!" cried Trent, impatiently, "while we chatter, the prisoner is escaping. Twenty pounds to the man who finds him."

The yokels needed no further incentive to action. They made a rush for the door, and in a few minutes the lands surrounding the village were dotted with lanterns, each carried by a man eager to earn the reward. Trent remained behind to ask questions.

"Did anyone see the prisoner?" he asked Holl.

The constable saluted sulkily.

"No, sir. You gave orders that no one was to disturb him, and locked the door yourself. That girl," he pointed to Elspeth, who was an attentive spectator, "came up to see him, and went on her knees at the very door itself, that I should let her in. I told her that I could not, and that even if I would, the door was locked."

"Did she speak through the door?"

"No, sir, but the prisoner must have heard her asking me to let her enter," returned Holl smartly; and having saluted was dismissed abruptly.

"Now then," said Trent, beckoning Elspeth to approach, "why did you wish to see the prisoner?"

The girl was quite ready with her reply.

"To tell him, that according to his wish I had sent a message to his friend in Tarhaven."

"Ah!" cried Browne, nodding his thanks, "that was me. _You_ sent the telegram."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Herries said that you would help him."

"I intend to do all I can, my girl, but matters look black against him. All the same he is innocent."

"You had no right to send the telegram without telling me," said Trent to Elspeth in angry tones.

"Mr. Herries was kind to me," she returned, steadily, "and I was quite right in returning his kindness!"

"And Herries was within his rights in asking to see me," said Browne sharply. "The poor devil needs a friend, seeing how you have already judged him."

"I do not judge him," said Trent, very irritated, "the jury will do that, Dr. Browne."

"You'll have to catch your hare first, Mr. Inspector."

Trent would have made an angry reply, and there is no knowing to what lengths the quarrel would have proceeded, only that Browne's attitude was so sturdy, and his blue eyes so unflinching in their gaze, that the Inspector thought it would be best to leave the fiery little doctor alone. He was as much in the right, as Trent himself was in the wrong. However, the Inspector was determined to vent his wrath on someone, and chose Elspeth, who remained in the room, with himself and Browne. Everyone else, even Mrs. Narby, was out hunting the miserable man, whom they insisted was guilty.

"What do you know of this?" asked Trent. "Tell the truth!"

"I never tell lies," replied the girl quietly. "I know nothing. I went up over an hour ago to inform Mr. Herries that I had sent the telegram, and the policeman, who has just gone out, would not allow me to see him. I then put on my cloak and hat, and came down to go with Sweetlips Kind to his caravan."

"Why did you go there?"

"To see his wife, who is dying. If you remember, Mr. Trent----"

"Yes, yes," snapped the Inspector rather ashamed of himself, and addressed Browne. "A Cheap-jack came here over an hour ago asking that a doctor should be sent to his wife. Your friend Herries is a medical man, but of course I could not let him go, and there was no one else."

"Is the woman very ill?" asked Browne, sharply.

"She was, but she is better now," replied Elspeth, "I looked after her. It is not a matter of life and death, now."

"In that case, I may as well see the corpse upstairs," said the doctor, briskly. "Will you come with me, Mr. Inspector?"

Trent agreed, readily enough, as there was nothing else left for him to do. His men and the villagers were out hunting the mists for the escaped criminal, and it was useless for him to join in, since his presence was required in the death-chamber. He went upstairs with the doctor, and Elspeth was left alone. She heaved a sigh of relief when they departed, and sat down before the fire to snatch a few moments of quiet before her tyrant returned, and to think over the position of affairs.

There could be no doubt that she loved this fugitive, for her heart ached to think of the peril he was in. The poor girl's life had been a hard one, and now at the age of twenty, there did not seem much chance of improvement. Overhearing somewhat of the story told by Herries to Gowrie, she thought that his bad luck was very much like her own. Since her cradle, she had been the victim of misfortune, and nothing had gone well with her. Yet, had Elspeth been better fed and better dressed, and loved as a girl of her age should be loved, she would undoubtedly have bloomed into a pretty damsel. But cares had aged her, and want of good food rendered her lean. If Herries was Jonah, she was Mrs. Jonah. As this quaint thought came into her mind, she smiled and blushed. Much as she would have liked to be Mrs. Jonah, there was small chance of her achieving her desire. The man she loved was a supposed criminal, flying from justice, and even had his case been less desperate, he could not marry her for lack of money. And again, even had he possessed money, he would not have made her his wife, as he was not in love with her, as she was with him. The future looked very dark to this poor Cinderella seated by the fire; and thinking of her sorrows, the tears ran down her cheeks, although she had plenty of pluck. But the most plucky person gives way at times.

She was aroused from her musings by the entrance of Pope in a state of excitement. He carried a lantern, and was covered with mud, his face was red, and his eyes flashed brightly. Elspeth started up in alarm fearing the worst.

"Have they caught him?" she asked, laying her hand on her breast to still the loud beating of her heart.

"Not yet, but they soon will," said the poet. "Everyone is searching the marshes all around, and the lanterns are dancing like will-o'-the-wisps in the foggy air. I have tried to find him, but I cannot. Oh, I hope mother or father will, and then I'll have the twenty pounds to publish my poems."

"Would you sell that poor man for twenty pounds, Pope?"

"Why not, Elspeth, if he is guilty?"

"But he is not," declared the girl, vehemently. "You and everyone else have made up your minds that Mr. Herries killed Sir Simon. I don't believe that he did, and I hope that he has escaped."

"Then if he is innocent, Mr. Gowrie must be guilty."

Elspeth rose angrily, and darting forward, shook the long shambling lad furiously.

"How dare you say that?" she cried. "Why should Mr. Gowrie kill Sir Simon?"

"Sir Simon had money," stuttered Pope, much ruffled, and backing before the small fury who faced him. "He slept in this room, and could easily have gone upstairs, when everyone was quiet, to kill Sir Simon.

"He did nothing of the sort, Pope. I know Mr. Gowrie better than you do, and he is incapable of such wickedness."

"It was Mr. Gowrie who brought you here, wasn't it, Elspeth?"

"Yes," said the girl listlessly, and all the light died out of her eyes, "a year ago."

"I was away at that time," chattered Pope setting down his lantern, and producing a cheap cigarette. "Mother placed me in an office; but I could not stand so sordid a life," he added with an affected shudder. "It was not the life for a poet, so I came back, and here I can write glorious verse."

"So you think," said Elspeth, who had read Pope's productions, and thought very little of them. "But you would be much better earning your own bread and butter, than living on your mother."

"They have brought a genius into the world, and it is their glorious duty to support him," said Pope grandiloquently. "When I am Poet Laureate, I'll make it up to them."

Elspeth shrugged her spare shoulders and went resignedly about her work. It was impossible to make Pope think himself any other but the most famous poet in the world, and his conceit amounted to a positive mania. Even as Elspeth moved away, the young man commenced to mouth one of his bombastic poems, devoid of grammar or sense, and Elspeth felt inclined to stop her ears, so vile was the rhythm. This she did not do, having a vivid recollection of having suffered at Pope's hands, when she had once betrayed disgust. The poet was mild enough usually, but when his vanity was touched he grew positively dangerous, and went--as the saying goes--baresark. Knowing his eccentricities, Elspeth, therefore, paid no attention to the verses, but worked on quietly, while Pope, fancying himself a Homer at the least, walked up and down declaiming turgid blank verse. Finally, finding that Elspeth did not applaud, he stopped and looked at her spitefully.

"Genius is wasted on you, Elspeth."

"Entirely," she answered coolly. "Why didn't you wipe your boots before you come in, Pope. They are covered with red mud. You have been to the creek at the back of the house."

"Why shouldn't I have gone there?" asked Pope, with a snarl, and his freckled face grew red.

"I don't think Mr. Herries would try to escape in that way."

Pope cooled down, and re-lighted his cheap cigarette.

"Well, he didn't go that way, although I hunted all along the banks," he said. "Have you any idea of where he has gone, Elspeth?"

"If I had, I shouldn't tell you, Pope."

"You must, you are only my mother's servant."

"That is not true, Pope," said the girl, but her eyes flashed angrily as she turned on him sharply. "Mr. Gowrie brought me here a year ago, and as he could not pay for his board and lodging he left me in pawn, so to speak, to your mother. I have been a drudge ever since."

"Well, and what is a drudge but a servant," snapped Pope, cowering over the fire to warm his lean hands. "Is Mr. Gowrie any relation to you, Elspeth?"

"Yes," she replied with an averted face, "don't ask questions."

"I want to know what your last name is?"

"Then you won't."

"Does my mother know?"

"She does not. She knows me as Elspeth, and that must content her, and you together. Why do you wish to know about me?"

Pope leered at her, and his eyes flashed.

"I thought that if you were washed that you might be pretty."

"Well," said Elspeth, unmoved.

"And that I might marry you."

The girl flushed.

"I would sooner kill myself," she cried in a spirited tone. "My life is hard enough, but marriage with you"--she shuddered and cast a look of loathing at this creature, who dared to present himself as her lover.

"Oh, very well, miss," said Pope shrilly, his voice invariably grew shrill when he became angry, "I'll tell mother about you, and she'll make it hot for you. You piggish drudge," he raged, stamping up and down the tap-room, "you ugly cat--you nasty beast, I wouldn't marry you, if you were set with diamonds like--like----" he stopped, abruptly.

"Like what?" inquired Elspeth sarcastically.

"Like the king's crown," ended the poet lamely, and then his wrath died down, as suddenly as it had arisen. "I say, Elspeth, I didn't mean what I said. Make me a cup of tea! Do! Do! Do!"

The creature was like a naughty child, and Elspeth made every allowance for his nerves. Quarrels of this sort were frequent between them, yet Pope in his own half-mad way was in love with Elspeth, and when things went awry with him, would always come to be comforted by her. This did not make her position any the more easy with Mrs. Narby, who was like a tigress with her cub, when Pope was in the question. Mean as was the inn, and lowly as was the position of herself and her husband, Mrs. Narby would have gone out of her mind with rage at the idea of her darling marrying Elspeth. That the girl was indubitably a lady, Mrs. Narby never recognised. She looked on Elspeth as a drudge, and would have broken her neck sooner than call her daughter-in-law.

To keep Pope quiet, Elspeth made some tea, and the poet retired to his favourite settle, there to compose poetry. In a few moments Trent came down with Browne, and they went into the parlour. When the poet was busy with his verses, and abstractedly sipping the tea, Elspeth crept to the door of the parlour, and listened. She blushed at the idea of eavesdropping, but in the cause of Herries, she would have dared to do a deal more. Unlucky as the hunted man was, he had at least two friends, Dr. Browne, and Elspeth, who had no surname.

"Until I make a proper examination I cannot be quite certain," she heard the doctor say, "but I think the old man was killed somewhere about twelve o'clock last night. Was no cry heard?"

"None," replied Trent. "At least the landlady told me so. And, as the bed is covered with blood, I expect that he was attacked when he was asleep."

"Probable enough," mused the doctor. "Well, Mr. Inspector, you had better get your doctor from Tarhaven, and have the body officially examined. I suppose the inquest will take place here?"

"I think it will be best, doctor. I'll send to Sir Simon's house, and break the news to his daughter."

"Let me go," urged Browne, "I know her well, and will be able to tell her the tragedy in a more gentle way than you would."

"I am not exactly wanting in tact," said Trent annoyed, "and----"

He stopped at hearing a shout outside the inn, and Elspeth had only time to glide away from the door and back to the tap-room, before the alert Inspector was at the front door. Just as he was about to open it, Mrs. Narby entered with a rush, hugging in her arms a bundle of cloth.

"I've got it--I've got it," she shouted.

"Got Herries?" asked Trent sharply.

"The fur coat," shouted Mrs. Narby, who was red and perspiring, and threw down the coat on the floor. "See--the fur coat--sables, as I'm a living woman. That cove es parsed out wore it."

"Sir Simon's coat," said Trent. "What do you think of this, doctor?"

"Much the same as I did before," replied Browne, tartly. "The assassin wore this coat to facilitate his escape, and flung it away to prevent discovery!"